


Under the Wing of an Angel

by PetrichorPerfume



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Kisses, Angel/Demon Relationship, Comfort, Crack, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Fluff, Friendship/Love, I Love You, Love Confessions, M/M, Prayer, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), rainstorm, thunderstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 17:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21080141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrichorPerfume/pseuds/PetrichorPerfume
Summary: Crowley prays. Aziraphale answers.A little bit of fluff, a tiny bit of crack, and a whole lot of love.





	Under the Wing of an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> A story I started a while back that I just finished this morning when I should have been studying. Let me know what you think!

Ever since the first storm had rolled over Eden, Aziraphale had loved the rain, and the thunder that often accompanied it, as well as the lightning that preceded the thunder. He’d never minded getting caught in a good, hard summer rain, and had never been caught complaining about sun showers, though sleet was a different story entirely, and forget about snow. 

In short, rain was no enemy of his. 

Crowley, on the other hand, had hated the very idea of rain before it ever touched him, and he’d promptly taken shelter under Aziraphale’s wings the very moment the first of the raindrops had fallen upon them. 

Rain was very much a foe of Crowley’s, which was why he had chosen today to take a stroll to the bakery a few blocks up. He’d checked the weather forecast, which had promised clear skies with a ten percent chance of showers. That ten percent had made him hesitate for the slightest of seconds, but in the end, he’d figured that chocolate croissants and sticky buns and a Danish or three for him and Aziraphale were ultimately worth the risk. 

But here, now, standing beneath the bakery’s awning, watching the storm clouds congregating just to the east, he wasn’t quite so sure. He let out a long string of curses in a variety of ancient languages that vaguely translated into something lewd about the sky god and his mother. 

Lightning flashed, and the sound of thunder was not far off. Clearly, he’d gone too far with that last bit about the cow. 

Crowley took off as fast as he could without running. It was undignified for a demon of his predisposition to run from something as commonplace as rain. 

It didn’t take him long to get completely and utterly turned around. The ominous glow of the sky cast familiar landmarks in an eerie gloom. And then, as if the sky had taken personal offense to his earlier comments, it started to rain. 

And so he ran, dignity in tatters, clutching the bag of pastries under his coat and willing it not to slip. 

If demons had a God, he’d have prayed – but then it occurred to him; he might not have much stead in the Almighty Herself, but he had what very well might be the next best thing.

***

Aziraphale was not quite used to receiving prayers. He’d been a minor angel even in the Middle Ages, back when almost all angels were receiving cartloads of prayers. That had been about a hundred years before Heaven went digital (one of the perks of being, well, Paradise, was that you got a lot of perks before they were even invented below, on Earth. It was all, Aziraphale assumed, part of the ineffability of the Plan.) 

Their desks had been overflowing, back then, groaning with the weight of the prayers of the pious. Some were answered – mostly the funny ones – but most were not. 

Aziraphale, being a minor angel even back in those days, had made it his business to appear as productive as possible – by answering every prayer he ever received, the sum total of added up to about 57 or so. 

So when he received Crowley’s prayer, he knew what he must do – if not because he was madly in love with the demon, then merely for his track record to remain intact. 

Or maybe it was a little bit of both that made him leap up from his armchair and hurry out towards Crowley’s car, floor the pedal, and hope for the best. 

***

“58,” Aziraphale announced proudly as a sopping wet Crowley pulled the miraculously intact bag of breakfast out of his coat. 

“It’s not really a demon’s way to say thank you,” Crowley confessed. He waited a beat before turning Aziraphale’s face towards him and kissing him gently, a feat made slippery and rather strange by the raindrops still sliding down the demon’s face. 

“I thought you were going to say ‘thank you,’” Aziraphale protested. “Not kiss me when you’ve just come out of the rain.” 

Crowley shrugged, and turned his face away towards the window. Aziraphale knew that look well, so as he pulled out and let the mostly self-driving Bentley do its thing, the angel laid a careful hand on Crowley’s knee. 

“I always answer prayers,” Aziraphale confessed. “I know it’s a thing that is not done in Heaven. You’re not supposed to answer prayers from the impious, or of any soul from Hell. But... I would gladly break every rule in the book, and have indeed thrown most of them to the wind, in your name.” 

When Crowley looked at his friend and lover, Aziraphale was blushing. 

“Hey,” he said, softly. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale answered. It was all he could do to keep from tearing up at the gravity of what he’d just said. 

“Thank you,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale was listening intently to the other, even over the fresh lashing of wind and water raining down on their window. He knew Crowley had said thank you, but he heard only the words Crowley had meant to say – “I love you.”


End file.
